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3RARY  FACILI' 

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A  FOOT     AND 
LIGHTHEARTED 

JS  JS  M 
W.  L.  RICHARDSON 


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THE  EIGFR 


Afoot  and  Lighthearted 

THE     RECORD     OF   A   FEW 
WALKING   EXPERIENCES 


BY 

W.  L.  RICHARDSON 


Afoot  and  lighthearted  I  take  to  the  open  road. 
Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  mc, 
The    long    brown    path    before    me    leading    wherever 
I  choose.  WALT  WHITMAN 


CHICAGO 

PRIVATELY    PRINTED 
1915 


Tramp  (outside) — Good  evening  to  you, 
lady  of  the  house. 

Nora — Good  evening,  kindly  stranger,  it's 
a  wild  night,  God  help  you,  to  be  out  in 
the  rain  falling. 

Tramp — It  is,  surely,  and  I  walking  to 
Brittas  from  the  Aughrim  fair. 

Nora — Is  it  walking  on  your  feet,  stranger? 

Tramp — On  my  two  feet,  lady  of  the  house. 

SYNGE  (Shadow  of  the  Glen) 


COPYRIGHT.    1915,   BY 
W.  L.  RICHARDSON 


PREFACE 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  May  day  in  1914  that 
I  met  a  boy  trudging  along  a  country  road  in 
Devonshire.  "How  far  is  it  to  Teignmouth?"  I 
asked.  "Seven  mile,"  came  his  reply,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  knew.  And  then,  realizing  that 
I  was  planning  to  cover  the  distance  on  foot,  he 
added :  "You  can't  walk  all  that  w'y."  "Oh  yes, 
I  can,"  I  said,  "and  I  have  already  gone  seven- 
teen miles."  He  looked  at  me  incredulously  and 
in  silence  until  he  had  stepped  into  his  familiar 
lane  within  easy  reach  of  home.  "You  lie," 
he  shouted;  "you  couldn't  walk  all  that  w'y 
in  one  d'y!" 

The  pedestrian  soon  finds  that  not  every  one 
shares  with  him  his  enthusiasm  for  the  noble 
pastime  of  walking.  Difficulties  are  magnified 
and  the  rewards  are  only  dimly  understood. 
"Well,  well!  Are  you  working  ofif  a  bet?"  asked 
a  friend  when  I  told  him  I  was  starting  for  a 
three  weeks'  walking  trip.  "The  only  time  I 
walk,"  drawled  out  a  certain  dull  young  fellow 
whom  I  met  after  an  invigorating  all-day's  tramp, 
"is  when  I  have  no  money  to  pay  my  fare." 

There  are  a  few  choice  souls  who  insist  that 
walking  is  an  end  unto  itself  and  its  own  suffi- 
cient reward.  Thoreau,  for  example,  claimed 
that   walking   is   properly   sauntering   and   need 

3 


I'RI'.I'ACI", 

liave  no  objective.  "I  love  to  walk  at  my  ease, 
and  stop  at  leisure,"  wrote  Rousseau.  These 
were  kindred  spirits  with  the  tramp  in  the  story 
who  was  ofifered  a  lift  by  a  kindhearted  gentle- 
man in  an  automobile.  "What's  the  use !"  said 
the  tram]).    "Ain't  goin'  nowhere." 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  a  walk  should 
have  some  definite  goal — though  it  may  well  be 
undertaken  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  walk 
as  for  the  experiences  that  come  by  the  way. 
And  the  pace  ought  to  be  at  least  respectable. 
On  a  memorable  day  several  years  ago  a  friend 
of  mine  and  I  walked  into  Heidelberg  together. 
At  a  wayside  watering  trough  we  chanced  upon 
a  good-humored  and  substantial  peasant  woman. 
ATy  friend  asked  her  the  distance  into  Heidelberg. 
"Drei  Stunde,"  she  replied,  measuring  the  dis- 
tance in  hours,  not  in  miles,  following  a  pleasant 
rural  custom.  Then,  looking  up  and  surveying 
us  critically  from  head  to  foot,  she  said:  "Ach, 
zwei  Stunde  fur  solche  jungen  Herrn."  It  was  a 
handsome  compliment ;  and  we  felt  that  we  had 
earned  the  praise  when  we  swung  into  Heidel- 
berg well  within  the  two  hours  she  allowed. 

Before  describing  a  few  of  my  walking  expe- 
riences I  am  tempted  to  quote  a  well-known 
passage  from  the  Confessions  of  Rousseau.  It 
is  the  very  apotheosis  of  walking  and  invests  it 
with  a  dignity  and  a  halo.     Aly  own  pedestrian 

4 


PREFACE 

impressions,  calm  indeed  by  comparison,  cannot 
be  thought  extravagant. 

"I  remember  passing  one  delicious 
night  outside  the  town,  in  a  road  which 
ran  by  the  side  of  either  the  Rhone  or 
the  Saone,  I  forget  which  of  the  two. 
Gardens  raised  on  a  terrace  bordered 
the  other  side  of  the  road.  It  had  been 
very  hot  all  day,  and  the  evening  was  de- 
lightful; the  dew  moistened  the  parched 
grass,  the  night  was  profoundly  still, 
the  air  fresh  without  being  cold ;  the 
sun  in  going  down  had  left  red  vapors 
in  the  heaven,  and  they  turned  the  water 
to  rose  color ;  the  trees  on  the  terrace 
sheltered  nightingales,  answering  song 
for  song.  I  went  on  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy, 
surrendering  my  heart  and  every  sense 
to  the  enjoyment  of  it  all,  and  only 
sighing  for  regret  that  I  was  enjoying 
it  alone.  Absorbed  in  the  sweetness  of 
my  musing,  I  prolonged  my  ramble  far 
into  the  night,  without  perceiving  that 
I  was  tired.  At  last  I  found  it  out.  I 
lay  down  luxuriously  on  the  shelf  of  a 
niche  or  false  doorway  made  in  the 
wall  of  the  terrace ;  the  canopy  of  my 
bed  was  formed  by  overarching  tree- 
tops;  a  nightingale  was  perched  exactly 
over  my  head,  and  I  fell  asleep  to  his 
singing." 

5 


Your  pedestrian  is  always  cheerful,  alert, 
refreshed,  with  his  heart  in  his  hand  and 
his  hand  free  to  all.  He  looks  down  upon 
nobody;  he  is  on  the  common  level.  His 
pores  are  all  open,  his  circulation  is  active, 
his  digestion  good.  His  heart  is  not  cold, 
nor  are  his  faculties  asleep.  He  is  the  only 
real  traveller ;  he  alone  tastes  the  "gay, 
fresh  sentiment  of  the  road." 

John  Burroughs 


Afoot  and  Lighthearted 

IN    NORWAY 

IT  is  strange  that  with  all  the  succession  of 
interesting  and  novel  experiences  I  had  in 
Norway,  there  is  none  which  stands  out  so 
clearly  in  my  memory,  after  an  interval  of 
seven  years,  as  a  chance  meeting  with  a  Nor- 
wegian peasant  one  late  afternoon  as  I  pursued 
my  way  from  Vossevangen  to  Eide.  To  give  the 
setting  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 

Only  four  days  before  this  I  had  landed  at 
Bergen.  At  Ottilia  Hansen's  Pensionat  I  had 
been  well  served  on  the  first  day.  I  seemed  to 
be  the  only  English-speaking  guest.  At  dinner 
I  sat  next  to  a  German.  He  could  not  speak  my 
language  nor  I  his.  while  neither  of  us  could 
make  himself  understood  in  the  language  of  the 
country.  But  we  could  both  eat,  which  was  the 
important  thing.  My  pleasantest  journey  that 
afternoon  was  to  the  top  of  Floien,  a  high  hill 
overlooking  the  city,  reached  by  a  winding  road 
which  revealed  at  every  turn  more  and  more  of 
the  city  and  surrounding  region :  first  a  small 
section  of  Bergen,  then  the  entire  city,  then  the 

7 


.\|-(;()T  AND   IJMI  TilEAR'Ji  !) 


outlying  country,  until  finally  a  vast  panorama 
was  disclosed  of  hills  and  mountains  and  valleys 
with  fjord  on  fjord  reaching  out  to  the  open  sea. 
The  next  morning  I  boarded  the  "Komman- 
dorin"  for  a  trip  on  a  great  arm  of  the  sea  known 
as  the  Sogne  Fjord,  north  of  Bergen  and  stretch- 
ing many  miles  east  into  the  country.  The  rain 
fell  pitilessly  and  a  cold,  searching  wind  froze  the 
very  marrow  of  my  bones.  But  as  the  day  ad- 
vanced the  weather  cleared  and  when  Balholmen 
was  reached  the  characteristic  Norwegian  scenery 
was  revealed — low  hills  that  gave  place  to  higher 
ones  and  then,  in  the  far  distance,  to  mountains 
with  their  snowy  tops,  while  below  was  the  deep 
green  water  of  the  fjord.  That  evening  at  10:30 
o'clock  I  took  another  boat  on  the  Fjaerland 
Fjord  from  Balholmen.  My  sole  companion  was 
a  very  agreeable  Norwegian  who  had  taught 
school  for  thirty-six  years,  most  of  the  time  in 
the  small  town  of  Laerdal  in  a  secluded  valley 
between  high  mountains  where  the  sun  is  seen 
only  six  months  of  the  year.  Most  of  his  pupils 
came  to  school,  he  told  me,  in  rowboats  from 
their  homes  along  the  fjord.  At  exactly  midnight 
we  reached  Fjaerland.  It  was  still  remarkably 
light  in  those  northern  latitudes  and  I  was  able 

8 


IX  NORWAY 


to  read  with  ease  the  fine  print  in  my  Baedeker 
as  I  sat  on  the  upper  deck.  (The  date  was 
June  16). 

Early  in  the  morning  I  walked  six  miles  to 
a  spur  of  an  enormous  glacier,  the  Jostedalsbra, 
which  stretches  actually  a  hundred  miles  in  each 
direction.  Here  was  the  visible  manifestation 
of  the  great  power  which  has  chiselled  out  in 
bygone  times  the  landscape  of  Western  Norway. 
The  glacier  makes  an  apparent  advance  each  year 
and  almost  every  day  tears  away  great  fragments 
of  rock.  Since  then  I  have  seen  a  number  of 
glaciers  at  close  range  but  none  which  made  such 
an  impression  upon  me  as  this.  At  one  o'clock  I 
took  the  boat  back  to  Balholmen  and  then  across 
the  Sogne  Fjord  southeast  to  another  fjord 
known  as  Aurlands.  Every  moment  the  scenery 
was  more  inspiring.  The  mountains  came  closer 
and  closer  together  until,  as  we  entered  the  Naro 
Fjord,  they  seemed  almost  to  overwhelm  us  on 
both  sides:  sometimes  bare  cliffs  in  castellated 
form,  sometimes  great  wooded  heights,  while 
towering  beyond  were  the  snowcapped  moun- 
tains. On  either  side  were  waterfalls  innumer- 
able, some  measuring  a  thousand  feet  in  one 
sheer  flight.  It  would  be  impossible  to  reproduce 
such  a  scene  in  all  its  majesty. 


Aia)UT  AXD  LKiilTllKAkTIlD 


I  dismounted  at  the  pleasant  little  town  of 
Gudvangen,  shouldered  my  knapsack  and  trav- 
ersed a  long  valley  almost  eight  miles  to  Stalheim. 
As  I  look  back  on  that  experience  I  am  reminded 
of  a  folio  edition  of  The  Wandering  Jew,  which 
proved  one  of  the  delights  of  my  childhood.  It 
contained  illustrations  by  Gustave  Dore,  one  of 
which  represented  the  aged  traveller  wandering 
the  length  of  a  deep  valley,  a  mere  pigmy  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  overmastering  forces  of 
nature.  Not  otherwise  was  my  own  situation  at 
this  moment.  IVly  road  ran  through  a  gorge  in 
the  mountains.  A  roaring,  rushing  river  was  at 
my  side  and  on  either  hand  majestic  cliffs  reach- 
ing upwards  two  thousand  or  more  feet.  The 
road  slowly  ascended,  and  now  I  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  Hill  Difificulty,  on  the  summit  of 
which  was  situated  a  lordly  castle,  the  goal  of 
my  day's  journey.  As  I  took  the  tortuous  path 
upwards  I  groaned  aloud  by  reason  of  the  burden 
which  I  bore  on  my  back.  But  ultimately  I 
stood  on  the  height  in  front  of  the  Stalheim 
Hotel  and  gazed  the  length  of  the  gorge  all  the 
way  back  to  Gudvangen.  Part  way  down  the 
hill  could  be  seen  two  roaring  waterfalls,  feeders 
to  the   river  which   I   have   mentioned.     Other 

10 


IN  NORWAY 


accessions  were  received  from  literally  hundreds 
of  other  waterfalls — varying  from  tiny  silver 
threads  trickling  down  the  cliffs  to  thundering 
masses  of  water — until  by  the  time  the  stream 
had  reached  the  fjord  it  had  become  a  respect- 
able river. 

My  journey  the  next  day  took  me  out  of  the 
region  of  the  fjords  and  back  into  the  country. 
Here  the  aspect  of  things  was  very  different.  I 
walked  beside  real  farms  in  the  open  valleys  with 
extensive  fields  under  cultivation,  and  here  and 
there  a  sawmill  making  use  of  running  water. 
Again,  I  found  myself  in  a  narrow  gorge,  the 
river  rushing  by  and  the  characteristic  rocks  and 
cliffs  and  mountains  hemming  me  in.  Several 
miles  beyond  Stalheim  is  an  expanse  of  water 
called  Opheim  Lake.  Violets — the  most  beautiful 
I  have  seen — buttercups,  wild  geraniums,  wild 
strawberry  blossoms,  lilacs  and  other  early  spring 
flowers  were  all  growing  on  the  shores. 

At  Framnae's  Hotel  I  had  my  dinner  and  in 
the  early  afternoon  pursued  my  way  to  Vosse- 
vangen.  The  scenery  became  wilder  and  more 
impressive,  with  more  lakes  and  gorges  and 
waterfalls.  Within  a  few  miles  of  Vossevangen, 
however,  I  found  the  farms  more  frequent.    The 

11 


Al'OOT  WD  l.l(;HT!!EARTKD 


town  itself  showed  a  very  creditable  amount  of 
bustle  and  life.  It  is  on  the  railroad  which 
stretches  from  Bergen  across  the  hills  to  Chris- 
tiania.  As  I  entered  the  town  at  the  end  of  a 
twenty-three  mile  tramp,  I  passed  two  country 
louts  out  for  an  evening  stroll.  I  saw  them 
nudge  each  other  at  the  sight  of  the  stranger 
and  quicken  their  pace  in  order  to  re-pass  me. 
There  was  a  bit  of  keen  rivalry  for  the  space  of 
a  few  rods  and  then  they  fell  behind,  for  I  had 
given  them  the  "heel-and-toe."  a  brand  appar- 
ently unknown  in  those  parts.  In  truth,  however, 
I  was  at  the  end  of  my  tether  when  I  reached 
Fleischer's  Hotel,  footsore  and  weary,  at  seven 
o'clock.  This  hostelry  was  large,  imposing  and 
fashionable.  I  found  there  some  of  the  objec- 
tionable type  of  American  tourists  and  I 
blushed  for  my  country.  Three  Chinese  officials 
on  a  sightseeing  tour  in  Norway  seemed  strangely 
out  of  place  in  these  surroundings.  Before  going 
to  bed  I  took  a  hot  bath  {varmt  Bad,  you  must 
ask  for),  and  straightened  out  seme  of  the  knots 
in  my  sore  muscles. 

Eide,  my  next  objective,  was  some  miles  to  the 
south,  at  the  northern  end  of  a  tongue  of  the 
Hardanger   Fjord.      I   left   A'ossevangen   in   the 

12 


IN  NORWAY 


early  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  At  the 
outset  I  encountered  only  quiet  country  scenes. 
But  presently  the  valley  began  to  close  in  and 
then  I  found  myself  looking  out  over  a  great 
gorge  with  a  beautiful  waterfall  (the  Skjerve 
Fos)  plunging  into  the  valley  beneath.  It  was 
worth  a  long  journey  to  gaze  upon  such  a  spec- 
tacle. The  road  wound  in  great  curves  down  and 
around  the  falls,  at  one  point  so  close  that  the 
spray  covered  me  like  a  dense  mist.  On  beyond 
I  found  a  short  cut,  a  footpath  a  few  hundred 
feet  shorter  than  the  winding  road.  It  led  me  at 
one  point  over  the  bare  face  of  a  rock — and  here 
a  tragedy  occurred,  for  my  feet  went  up  and  I 
went  down  and  I  spilled  my  belongings  hither 
and  yon. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  I  met  my  friend,  the 
Norwegian  peasant. 

Or,  rather,  he  met  me.  He  came  along  the 
selfsame  path,  and  walked  the  surface  of  the 
rock  with  a  more  certain  step  than  mine.  See- 
ing to  his  surprise  some  one  else  in  this  secluded 
spot  he  paused  and  smiled  the  broad  smile  of 
one  at  peace  with  the  world.  He  was  dumbly 
commiserate  as  he  watched  me  plaster  up  the 
wounds  occasioned  by  my  fall.     I  see  him  yet — 

13 


Al'OOT  AND  LIGIITIIEAF^TI'.IJ 


this  simple,  honest  rustic,  large  and  oldish,  com- 
pletely overtopped  by  a  huge  bundle  of  tree 
branches  which  he  bore  on  his  back,  giving  the 
appearance  of  Birnam  Wood  coming  to  Dun- 
sinane.  Like  Gotz  von  Berlichingen  he  was 
maimed,  and  an  iron  hook  did  service  for  the 
hand  that  was  gone. 

We  greeted  each  other  heartily  after  our 
ways.  He  asked  me  if  I  were  "Norsk."  I  said 
"Nei,  Amerikaner."  Then  he  wanted  to  know 
if  I  had  been  Norsk  before  I  had  become  Amer- 
ikaner, but  again  I  had  to  say  "nei."  At  this 
point  our  confidences  became  unintelligible,  for 
while  we  carried  on  an  animated  conversation 
as  we  walked  the  road,  my  language  was  my  own 
and  his  was  his  own,  and  we  attained  nothing 
but  a  rare  atmosphere  of  good  fellowship. 
In  the  gathering  dusk  I  had  him  stand  in  the 
road — he  remained  rooted  to  the  ground  like  a 
bit  of  adamant — while  I  took  his  picture.  The 
gentle  reader  can  therefore  get  a  glimpse  of  him, 
though  somewhat  obscured.  Here  was  his  cot- 
tage in  plain  sight  and  two  of  his  children  coming 
out  to  meet  him.  We  had  known  one  another 
for  ten  minutes  but  we  parted  like  old  friends. 
True  to  the  type,  he  showed  the  same  simple 

14 


IN  NORWAY 


integrity,  stability  of  temperament  and  cordial 
good  will  that  endear  the  Norwegian  people  to 
travellers  in  their  own  land  and  make  them 
well-nigh  ideal  citizens  when  transplanted  to 
America.     May  their  tribe  increase ! 


15 


The  road  winds  onward  long  and  white, 
It  curves  in  mazy  coils,  and  crooks 

A  beckoning  finger  down  the  height; 
It  calls  me  with  the  voice  of  brooks 

To  thirsty  travellers  in  the  night. 

I  leave  the  lonely  city  street, 
The  awful  silence  of  the  crowd; 

The  rhythm  of  the  roads  I  beat, 
My  blood  leaps  up,  I  shout  aloud. 

My  heart  keeps  measure  with  my  feet. 

A  bird  sings  something  in  my  ear, 
The  wind  sings  in  my  blood  a  song 

'Tis  good  at  times  for  a  man  to  hear ; 
The  road  winds  onward  white  and  long. 

And  the  best  of  Earth  is  here  I 

Arthur  Symons 


16 


IN   WALES 

IN  Hazlitt's  incomparable  essay  "On  Going  a 
Journey,"  which,  as   Stevenson  says,  is  "so 
good  that  there  should  be  a  tax  levied  on  all 
who  have  not  read  it,"  is  the  classic  descrip- 
tion of  the  pedestrian's  sense  of  supreme  comfort 
and  well-being  as  the  end  of  the  day  is  reached : 
"How    fine    it    is    to    enter  some   old 
town,  walled  and  turreted,  just  at  the 
approach   of    nightfall,    or   to   come   to 
some  straggling  village,  with  the  lights 
streaming     through     the     surrounding 
gloom;    and   then,    after    inquiring    for 
the   best   entertainment   that   the   place 
affords,  to  'take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn' ! 
These  eventful  moments   in  our  lives' 
history    are    too    precious,    too    full    of 
solid,  heartfelt  happiness  to  be  frittered 
and   dribbled   away   in   imperfect    sym- 
pathy.  I  would  have  them  all  to  myself, 
and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop :  they 
will   do   to   talk   of   or   to   write   about 
afterwards.     What  a  delicate  specula- 
tion it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets 
of  tea — 

The  cups  that  cheer,  hut  not  inebriate — 
and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the 
brain,  to  sit  considering  what  we  shall 
have  for  supper — eggs  and  a  rasher,  a 

17 


AI'OOT  AND  LIGllTIIKAkTi:iJ 


rabbit  smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excel- 
lent   veal    cutlet !      Sancho    in    such    a 
situation  once  fixed  upon  cow-heel ;  and 
his    choice,    though    he    could    not   help 
it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.     Then,   in 
the   intervals   of    pictured    scenery    and 
Shandean   contemplation,   to   catch    the 
l)reparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen 
(getting  ready  for  the  gentleman  in  the 
parlor).    Procnl,  0  procid  cste  profani! 
These  hours  are  sacred  to  silence  and  to 
musing,  to  be  treasured  up  in  the  mem- 
ory, and  to  feed  the  source  of  smiling 
thoughts  hereafter." 
No  experience  of  this  kind  stands  out  more 
clearly  in  my  memory  than  that  which  came  to 
me  on  the  evening  of  June  10,  1914,  in  Wales  in 
the  region  of  Bettvvs-y-Coed.     I  had  passed  the 
middle  point  of  a  five-hundred-mile  tramp  and 
this  had  proved  the  finest  day  of  all.    The  morn- 
ing had  found  me  in  the  old  historic  town  of 
Carnarvon  on  the  western  coast  of  Wales.     Bid- 
ding good-bye  to  some  delightful  people  I  had 
met  in  that  town,  I  took  the  train  easterly  to 
Snowdon   Station  at  the  foot  of  Mt.  Snowdon, 
the  highest  mountain  in  Wales  or  England.     A 
tramp  of  three  and  a  half  miles  brought  me  to 
Beddgelert,  situated  in  a  region  of  great  natural 

18 


IN  WALES 

beauty  and  possessing  romantic  interest  because 
of  the  touching  legend  of  the  dog  Gelert.  King 
Llewellyn  of  Wales,  so  the  tale  runs,  had  left 
his  infant  son  under  the  protection  of  Gelert. 
While  he  was  away  a  wolf  had  attempted  to 
slay  the  child  but  was  attacked  by  the  dog  and 
killed.  Returning,  Llewellyn  had  found  Gelert 
covered  with  blood,  and  under  a  misapprehen- 
sion had  promptly  dispatched  the  dog,  learning 
too  late  of  the  safety  of  the  young  prince  and  of 
Gelert's  heroism.  The  grave  of  the  faithful 
hound  is  a  place  of  resort.  I  had  never  gone  on 
a  pilgrimage  to  a  dog's  grave  before,  but  there 
seemed  nothing  inappropriate  about  it  and  I  did 
not  begrudge  the  time  and  labor  spent. 

Returning  to  Snowdon  Station  I  was  ready  for 
my  ascent  of  the  mountain.  At  the  foot  of  the 
trail  I  met  two  little  girls,  to  whom  I  presented 
very  gallantly  some  tiny  English  flags.  "Oh, 
thank  you,  sir!"  said  one,  but  the  other  being 
young  and  timid  had  no  words  to  her  tongue. 
Upwards  and  still  upwards  my  path  led  me,  and 
then  there  was  no  path,  or  at  least  I  had  lost  it, 
for  I  have  a  singular  perversity  in  getting  oflf  the 
road.  The  goal,  however,  was  always  in  sight 
and  I  felt  no  uneasiness  as  I  stumbled  among  the 
19 


AFOOT  AND  IJGI ITI  II':AkTI'.lJ 


rocks  and  over  the  rough  grass  of  the  steep  hill- 
side. Beyond  the  halfway  point  there  is  a  well- 
marked  ridge  which  becomes  ever  steeper  and 
ever  narrower  until  the  wayfarer  comes  to  a 
point  where  the  wind  whistles  and  the  precipices 
yawn  below  him  on  either  side.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  has  described  this  region  with  marvellous 
skill  in  "Aylwin"  and  invested  it  with  a  mystery 
and  a  certain  weird  charm  well  borne  out  by  the 
desolate  character  of  the  scenery  on  those  higher 
levels.  Snowdon,  that  old  Welsh  mountain,  has 
as  many  legends  attached  to  it  as  Mount  Olympus. 
I  finally  reached  the  summit — 3560  feet  above 
the  sea — at  about  two  o'clock  (after  a  climb  of 
an  hour  and  fifty  minutes)  ;  none  too  soon,  for 
the  rain  had  begun  and  the  wind  had  turned 
piercingly  cold.  The  railroad  which  mounts  from 
the  Llanberis  side  looked  inviting  enough  and, 
after  a  poor  and  costly  meal  in  the  little  hotel  at 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  I  climbed  aboard  the 
train  and  descended  slowly  to  the  valley.  The 
journey  had  scarcely  commenced  wdien  fair 
weather  returned  and  I  had  a  remarkable  view 
down  the  hill  to  Llanberis  Pass,  westerly  to 
Carnarvon  and  the  Bay,  north  to  Conway  and 
the  Great  Orme's  Head. 

20 


IX  WALES 

At  Llanberis  I  was  afoot  again  before  four 
o'clock.  The  weather  was  exquisitely  fine  and 
my  spirits  ran  high.  Ever}'  fifteen  minutes 
brought  me  invariably  to  a  new  mile-post.  "Give 
me,"  says  Hazlitt,  "the  clear  blue  sky  over  my 
head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a 
winding    road    before    me,    and    a    three    hours' 

march  to  dinner ."    At  Llanberis  Pass  came 

one  of  those  wonderful  scenes  that  reward  so 
frequently  the  traveller  in  Wales.  The  valley 
opens  out  like  a  fan.  Below  are  seen  many 
miles  of  open  country.  To  the  right  stretches 
the  road  to  Beddgelert,  to  the  left  the  road  to 
Capel  Curig.  At  the  back  is  the  road  to  Carnar- 
von ;  and  towering  over  all  the  majestic  Snow  don. 

The  whole  valley  seemed  to  greet  me,  smiling 
under  the  afternoon  sun,  and  to  beckon  me  on  to 
something  ever  more  and  more  alluring.  Was  it 
simply  because  I  was  feeling  in  fine  fettle — 

"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor! 

No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing, 

Nor  sinew  unbraced" 

or  was  it  really  a  region  of  such  marvellous 
beauty  as  I  felt  then  and  as  my  fancy  pictures 

21 


AFOOT  A\D  LIGMTIIKARTKI) 


it  in  recalling  the  scene  to-day?  However  it  may 
be,  I  trode  lightly  that  afternoon  and  felt  that 
North  Wales  could  scarcely  be  surpassed.  The 
road  takes  the  traveller  in  a  northerly  direction  to 
Pen-y-Gwryd  and  then  almost  due  east  to  Capel 
Curig  and  Bettws-y-Coed.  What  a  picture  Capel 
Curig  presented!  It  is  partly  hidden  among  a 
thick  grove  of  trees.  The  trails  lead  out  on  either 
side  and  curl  up  into  the  hills.  All  the  houses 
have  a  look  of  settled  content  and  some  are  pic- 
turesque in  the  extreme.  Two  small  lakes  and  a 
swift  and  business-like  river  give  diversity  to  the 
scene.  When  I  try  to  conceive  of  a  paradise  of 
beauty,  I  recall  the  region  from  Capel  Curig  to 
Bettw^s-y-Coed  and  I  need  no  choicer  example. 

At  seven  o'clock  or  thereabouts  I  passed  a 
building  set  back  from  the  road  and  surrounded 
by  some  acres  of  slightly  wooded  grounds.  "Dol 
Gam  Private  Hotel"  read  the  sign.  "Now,  just 
what  is  a  private  hotel?"  quoth  I  to  myself.  "Is 
it  for  the  likes  of  me  to  have  supper  there?" 
"You  might  try,"  says  myself  to  me.  So  up  I 
went,  real  bold  like.  And  I  was  met  by  a  demure 
sixteen-year-old  lass,  as  nice  looking  as  a  young 
girl  need  be,  and  was  told  that  supper  could  be 
had,  and  would  I  wait  in  the  parlor. 

22 


IN  WALES 


So  it  was  here  that  I  met  up  with  Hazlitt  and 
paralleled  his  experience  described  so  luxuriously 
a  few  pages  back.  At  the  end  of  the  room  was 
an  old-fashioned  bookcase  containing  a  scattered 
regiment  of  books  and  magazines  and  surmounted 
by  a  set  of  antlers.  Across  was  a  curio  cabinet 
and  a  framed  Red  Riding  Hood  picture  above  it. 
In  the  center  of  the  room  was  a  long  table  at  one 
end  of  which  a  cover  was  presently  laid  by  my 
young  hostess.  Where  I  sat  I  could  look  out  on 
the  long  road  and  muse  over  the  day's  happen- 
ings. The  gods  never  experienced  greater  peace 
of  mind  than  I  felt  at  that  moment. 

And  then  came  the  supper — a  steaming  bowl 
of  soup,  tender  lamb  chops,  tomatoes  fried  with 
cracker  crumbs,  new  potatoes  in  cream,  and  to 
cap  it  all,  a  delicious  gooseberry  pudding.  "One 
and  six,"  the  demure  lass  said  demurely  as  I 
finished;  but  I  had  not  the  heart  to  leave  less 
than  two  shillings.  Blessings  on  you,  young 
maiden  of  the  Dol  Gam !  You  will  never  serve 
a  more  appreciative  wayfarer. 

Then  on,  as  the  shadows  lengthened,  to  Bettws- 
y-Coed,  passing  Swallow  Falls  and  Fairy  Glen 
made  memorable  by  "Aylwin."  Generally  at  the 
close  of   the   day   the   pedestrian   insensibly   in- 

23 


AFOOT  AND  LIGI  ITi  lEARTKI) 


creases  his  pace  with  the  prospect  of  a  haven  and 
a  night's  rest  after  a  fatiguing  tramp.  But  in  this 
instance  I  loitered,  and,  as  did  Rousseau  on  the 
evening  he  describes  so  vividly,  walked  "in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy."  The  beauty  of  the  scene,  the  soft 
breeze,  the  sweet  country  odors,  the  murmuring 
streams,  the  plashing  waterfalls — all  wTought 
upon  me  to  such  an  extent  that  I  hated  to  have 
the  experience  terminate  and  with  each  turning  of 
the  road  rejoiced  that  I  was  still  spared  the  sight 
of  the  first  houses  of  the  town.  But  at  about 
nine  o'clock  I  finished  at  length  my  twenty-three- 
mile  jaunt.  Though  I  had  a  numerous  group  of 
hostelries  to  pick  from,  I  promptly  chose  the 
Craig-y-Don,  which  promised  from  its  appearance 
to  be  cheap  and  good,  as  indeed  it  proved.  The 
landlady  surveyed  me  critically  while  I  stood 
humbly  awaiting  her  verdict.  Finally  she  judged 
me  at  least  respectable  and  a  safe  risk  in  a  fman- 
cial  way,  and  flung  wide  the  portal. 

I  remember  well  the  room  I  had  in  the  Craig- 
y-Don  at  Bettws-y-Coed.  It  was  small  and 
scrupulously  clean  and  seemed  like  the  guest  room 
in  a  private  home.  The  bed  had  an  old-fashioned 
canopy;  the  stretching  space  was.  alas,  only  about 
five  feet  eight  inches  long.     On  the  wall  at  the 

24 


IN  WALES 


foot  was  a  motto  in  Welsh,  neatly  framed.  Only 
a  few  hundred  yards  distant  was  a  waterfall  in 
the  Conway  River.  Its  subdued  roar  lulled  me  to 
sleep. 


25 


I  saw  also  in  my  Dream,  that  when  the 
Shepherds  perceived  that  they  were  way- 
faring men,  they  also  put  questions  to  them 
( to  which  they  made  answer  as  in  other 
places)  as,  Whence  came  you?  and,  How 
got  you  into  the  way?  and.  By  what  means 
have  you  so  persevered  therein  ?  For  but 
few  of  them  that  begin  to  come  hither  do 
show  their  faces  on  these  Mountains.  But 
when  the  Shepherds  heard  their  answers, 
being  pleased  therewith,  they  looked  very 
lovingly  upon  them,  and  said,  Welcome  to 
the  Delectable  Mountains. 

Pilgrim's  Progress 


26 


IN    SWITZERLAND 

THE  Delectable   Mountains — how  pleasing 
a  name  they  bear !    Whatever  they  signi- 
fied in  Christian's  travels,  in  my  own  ex- 
perience the  Delectable  Mountains  consist 
of  the  Eiger,  the  Monch  and  the  Jungfrau,  those 
giant  peaks  in  the  Bernese  Oberland. 

My  first  glimpse  of  them  came  in  June,  1908, 
when,  in  company  with  a  life-long  friend,  I  spent 
four  never-to-be-forgotten  days  afoot  in  the 
higher  Alps.  We  had  been  delayed  by  rain  and 
foul  weather  for  three  days  at  Gunten  on  Lake 
Thun,  but  finally  resolved  to  get  under  way ;  so 
at  6:30  o'clock  on  the  succeeding  morning  we 
strapped  on  our  packs,  caught  the  boat  at  the 
Gunten  dock  and  the  train  at  Spiez  and  in  two 
hours  and  a  half  were  at  Interlaken  ready  for  our 
day's  labors.  Our  tramp  was  to  take  us  up  from 
Lauterbrunnen  (2620  feet)  to  Wengen  (4190), 
to  Wengern  Alp  (6160),  to  Kleine  Scheidegg 
(6770),  to  the  Eiger  Glacier  (7640),  back  to 
Kleine  Scheidegg  and  down  into  the  Grindelwald 
valley  (3402),  and  finally  uphill  again  to  Grosse 
Scheidegg  (6434),  where  we  were  to  spend  the 
night.    To  the  uninitiated  these  names  may  mean 

27 


AFOOT  AND  LIGHT! lEARTKD 


nothing,  but  their  mere  enumeration  quickens  the 
blood  of  those  whose  eyes  have  seen  God's  handi- 
work in  this  marvellous  region. 

At  the  outset  nature  was  unkind.  All  ahead 
was  mist  and  obscurity,  only  a  rod  or  so  of  path, 
rocky,  and  wet  with  the  rain,  stretching  on  and 
upward ;  while  back  in  the  Lauterbrunnen  valley 
were  dimly  to  be  seen  the  houses  of  the  town  and 
the  Staubbach  falls,  dropping  from  the  clifiFs  980 
feet  into  the  valley.  Above  our  heads  were  the 
mountains,  completely  shrouded  by  the  mist.  We 
entered  the  cloud  line  with  forebodings.  Wengen 
was  passed,  then  the  station  of  Wengern  Alp. 
and  still  there  was  no  change.  We  knew  that 
the  great  mountains  were  close  at  hand  but  they 
were  hidden  by  a  pall  which  we  were  powerless 
to  remove. 

Suddenly,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  curtain  was  mar- 
vellously rolled  away.  Those  who  walked  in 
darkness  saw  a  great  light.  We  actually  lifted 
our  heads  out  of  the  clouds,  and  there  were  our 
Delectable  Mountains !  At  our  feet  a  mass  of 
cloud  and  mist,  so  dense  that  it  seemed  possible 
to  walk  across  it ;  above  us  the  blue  sky  and  the 
brilliant  sunlight ;  and  across  the  valley  the  snow 
white  peaks  of  the  Eiger,  the  Monch,  the  Jung- 

28 


f^"""         ^B 

IN  SWITZERLAND 


frau  and  the  Silberhorn,  dazzlingly  beautiful  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  sun.  For  almost  two  hours 
in  our  upward  climb  we  feasted  our  eyes  on  this 
view.  The  mist  occasionally  rose  from  the  valley 
and  covered  the  heights,  but  not  for  long;  the 
shifting  scene  only  accentuated  its  beauty.  At 
Eiger  Glacier,  our  highest  point,  a  great  snow 
and  ice  field  was  spread  all  about  us. 

We  ate  our  lunch  at  the  head  of  the  path  lead- 
ing down  to  Grindelwald  and  our  supper  at  a 
Swiss  chalet  part  way  up  the  heights  of  Grosse 
Scheidegg.  All  the  events  of  the  day  are  vividly 
fixed  in  my  memory :  the  steady  uphill  climb, 
hour  after  hour,  the  vision  of  the  magnificent 
Alpine  scenery,  the  careful  return  on  a  rocky 
pathway  and  around  a  frowning  cliff  to  see  a 
smiling  valley  suddenly  disclosed  and  stretching 
away  for  miles  (walled  in  on  all  sides  by  huge 
mountains),  the  near  view  of  the  town  nestled  at 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  the  final  scaling  of  the 
heights  beyond  as  night  approached,  and  the  wel- 
come sight  of  the  lights  of  the  hotel  at  Grosse 
Scheidegg  just  as  we  were  beginning  to  despair 
of  finding  the  place  in  the  dark.  We  were  the 
latest  arrivals  and  all  the  rooms  were  engaged, 
but  we  were  taken  in  none  the  less  and  given  a 

29 


Ai'"()()T  .WD  LiGiiTni-:.\frn:i) 


room  under  the  dining  room  that  properly  be- 
longed to  some  of  the  serving  people.  We  lost 
no  time  in  climbing  into  our  great  German  feather 
beds  and  wooing  gentle  sleep  after  a  day  of  stren- 
uous exertion. 

The  hotel  was  built  on  the  hillside  and  looked 
over  the  valley  from  whence  we  had  come.  Hence 
it  commanded  one  of  the  fairest  scenes  in  the 
Alps ;  and  indeed  when  I  opened  my  eyes  in  the 
morning  the  great  peak  of  the  Eiger  presented 
itself  immediately  to  my  gaze,  framed  by  the 
window  sash  of  our  humble  basement  room.  The 
photograph  of  the  Eiger  which  I  took  the  preced- 
ing day  (reproduced  in  the  frontispiece)  gives 
much  the  same  view. 

Our  second  day's  tramp  took  us  first  downhill 
to  Rosenlaui  (4363  feet)  and  the  Reichenbach 
River,  then  along  the  river  almost  to  Meiringen. 
then  diverging  easterly  to  Innertkirchen  (2080) 
then  steadily  uphill,  moving  up  the  course  of  the 
Aare  River  to  Guttannen  (3480),  the  Handegg 
(4530),  and  Grimsel  Hospice  (6155),  a  journey 
of  twenty-three  miles  in  all.  There  was  wild, 
picturesque  and  diversified  scenery.  At  Rosen- 
laui a  glacier  may  be  seen,  poking  its  head  over 
a  cleft  in  tlie  mountains.   The  Reichenbach  River 

30 


N  SWITZERLAND 


rushes  downward  to  its  junction  with  the  Aare 
at  Meiringen  and  over  that  town  plunges  into  a 
gorge  and  leaps  over  into  the  valley  in  two  beau- 
tiful falls.  The  hills  converge  at  the  end  of  the 
Meiringen  valley,  but  at  Innertkirchen  another 
valley  opens  out.  On  the  higher  levels  beyond 
we  passed  through  wooded  stretches,  with  the 
wild  tempestuous  Aare  River  roaring  at  our  side. 
When  noon  came  we  had  a  good  dinner  at  a 
pleasant  inn  and  then  sprawled  out  on  the  grass 
for  almost  three  hours  where  the  sun  could  strike 
us  and  untie  our  stiffened  muscles. 

In  the  afternoon  our  tramp  proved  even  more 
interesting.  The  scenery  became  wilder  and 
wilder.  The  plunging,  twisting  and  foaming 
Aare  was  always  in  sight  and  afforded  endless 
delight.  At  Handegg  the  river  goes  roaring  down 
a  tremendous  gorge  where  the  rocks  are  worn 
perfectly  smooth  by  the  water.  From  this  point 
the  road  winds  around  great  bluffs  in  a  tortuous 
manner  and  leads  into  a  desolate  and  rocky 
region.  The  snow  was  not  only  above  us  in  the 
mountains  but  here  and  there  patches  were  to  be 
seen  along  the  roadside,  the  remnants  of  huge 
winter  avalanches.  Somewhat  after  six  o'clock 
we  made  our  last  turn,  left  the  Aare  River  for 

31 


AFOOT  AND  LIGHTHEARTED 


good  and  entered,  weary  and  content,  the  sub- 
stantial hotel  known  as  Grimsel  Hospice. 

As  in  all  those  Alpine  hotels  we  found  a  varied 
assortment  of  people — German,  French,  English 
and  American — pedestrians  like  ourselves.  An 
hour  after  our  arrival  there  came  along  a  little 
Englishman  grunting  under  his  heavy  pack.  He 
seemed  like  an  old  friend.  Early  in  the  day  we 
had  seen  him  on  the  road  from  Meiringen  to 
Innertkirchen  and  we  had  exchanged  greetings 
and  passed  ahead.  At  our  lunching  place  he  pre- 
sented himself  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
after  our  arrival ;  and  he  probably  started  away 
a  good  hour  ahead  of  us.  At  five  o'clock  we 
found  him  leaning  wearily  on  a  parapet  overlook- 
ing the  Aare,  and  for  the  third  time  we  greeted 
him.  And  here  he  was  finally  at  the  Hospice — 
in  a  state  of  near-exhaustion.  I  imagine  that  the 
syrup  which,  as  he  told  us,  he  was  using  to  keep 
his  muscles  from  getting  stiff,  had  been  of  little 
efficacy.  His  was  a  curious  figure.  If  I  go  back 
to  the  Aare  region  I  shall  expect  to  see  him  again, 
for  he  seems  somehow  part  of  the  scenery. 

On  our  third  day  we  tramped  from  Grimsel 
Hospice  to  Grimsel  Pass  (7103  feet)  overlooking 
the  Rhone  Glacier  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 

32 


IN  SWITZERLAND 


Thence  into  the  valley  (5750)  and  slowly  up 
again  to  Hotel  Belvidere  by  the  side  of  the  sum- 
mit of  the  glacier  (7545)  and  easterly  to  the 
Furka  Pass  (7990).  After  six  miles  or  so  on  the 
heights,  an  abrupt  descent  into  the  valley  called 
the  Urseren-Tal,  past  the  village  of  Realp  (5060) 
and  on  to  Hospenthal  (4870),  where  we  spent  the 
night.  In  all  we  covered  eighteen  miles  that  day. 
We  set  out  immediately  after  breakfast,  fol- 
lowing the  steep  footpath  to  the  Pass.  The  little 
Englishman  came  along  after  us — we  could  see 
him  making  his  way  upwards,  his  heavy  pack  on 
his  back  and  a  singular  net  contrivance  filled  with 
small  bundles  swinging  from  a  walking  stick 
carried  over  his  shoulder.  It  was  our  last  sight 
of  him.  At  the  Pass  we  had  a  wonderful  view 
surpassing  description.  Back  of  us  was  the  road 
we  had  taken,  losing  itself  at  a  turn  of  the  river 
bed  of  the  Aare,  and  peak  after  peak  of  the 
mountains  to  the  west ;  before  us  was  the  great 
valley  of  the  Rhone,  the  Rhone  River  starting 
at  the  foot  of  the  glacier  and  tumbling  through 
the  valley  to  the  gorges  and  valleys  to  the  south ; 
while  to  the  northeast  and  southeast  were  more 
great  mountains  closing  in  the  Rhone  Valley,  our 
road  over  the  Furka  Pass  gleaming  like  a  piece 
of  white  tape  in  the  distance. 

33 


Xi'OOT  AXD  Llf;ilTIIE.\RTF:D 


On  our  long  journey  into  the  valley  and  our 
longer  journey  along  the  winding  road  and  steep 
footpaths  to  the  Hotel  Relvidere  we  had  a  good 
opportunity  to  inspect  a  glacier  close  at  hand. 
The  Rhone  Glacier  stretches  about  six  miles  from 
north  to  south,  although  not  much  more  than  its 
front  face  may  be  seen,  as  the  rest  is  embedded 
in  the  mountains.  From  base  to  summit  its 
height  is  about  1800  feet  and  its  width  also  is 
impressive.  As  seen  from  the  valley,  but  espe- 
cially from  the  hotel  at  the  summit,  the  glacier  is 
very  beautiful,  showing  the  clear  green  ice  at  a 
thousand  points. 

At  noon  we  had  our  faces  set  towards  the 
Furka  Pass,  a  few  miles  beyond  the  glacier,  and 
before  long,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  we  gave  up 
the  sight  of  those  grand  old  mountains  that  had 
been  our  companions  for  three  days.  But  other 
mountains  and  great  jagged  peaks  and  hills 
beckoned  us  onwards.  We  could  see  many  miles 
ahead,  as  far  as  the  mountains  over  the  St. 
Gotthard  Pass.  A  military  road  starts  at  the 
Furka  Pass,  skirts  the  cliffs  and  descends  lei- 
surely to  the  Rhone  Valley.  Our  road,  however, 
took  us  in  the  other  direction  towards  Hospen- 
tlial.     We   found  a  sheltered  spot  and  ate  the 

34 


IN  SWITZERLAND 


lunch  we  had  brought  with  us,  resting  a  good 
two  hours.    We  were  8000  feet  above  the  sea. 

In  an  hour  and  a  half  after  we  had  resumed 
our  journey,  we  came  to  a  veritable  jumping-off 
place.  The  hills  sloped  off  abruptly  into  a  wide 
and  fertile  valley,  girt  by  towering  hills.  The 
road  descended  in  great  curves,  but  we  followed 
the  footpath  and  jumped  from  rock  to  rock  and 
trotted  in  and  out  (while  our  packs  bobbed  up 
and  down,  and  my  camera  was  a  misery),  until 
after  fifteen  minutes  of  excessive  exertion  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  lower  levels  and  looked 
back  to  the  green  summit  from  whence  we  had 
come.  On  the  road  ahead  of  us  were  women 
driving  goats  and  carrying  great  bundles  of  hay, 
and  in  the  fields  were  busy  Swiss  harvest  scenes 
pleasant  to  behold.  We  went  through  Realp.  a 
small  old-fashioned  village,  followed  the  perfectly 
straight  road  through  the  valley  and  reached  Hos- 
penthal.  our  destination  for  the  night,  at  a  little 
before  six  o'clock.  In  the  small  Gasthaus  St. 
Gotthard  we  were  well  served.  Our  room  looked 
out  over  a  rushing  river. 

Beyond  Hospenthal  is  another  curiously  inter- 
esting German-Swiss  town  called  Andermatt,  and 
beyond  that  there  is  wild  and  rugged  scenery  as 
the    Reuss    River    enters    a    narrow   gorge    and 

35 


Al'OOT  AND  LIGIITIIKARTF.D 


ruslics  and  roars  along  in  a  perfect  frenzy  until 
it  reaches  the  more  level  region  on  beyond  and 
flows  through  Fliiellen  and  into  the  Lake  of 
Lucerne.  As  a  side  trip  we  went  down  to  Ander- 
matt  and  very  interesting  the  town  and  its  sur- 
roundings proved. 

But  our  journey  took  us  in  the  other  direction, 
up  the  hillside,  above  Hospenthal  (4870  feet)  to 
St.  Gotthard  Pass  (6935),  and  then  along  the 
steep  and  tortuous  downhill  road  to  the  Italian- 
Swiss  town  of  Airolo  (3750),  where  we  took  the 
train  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Italian  Lakes.  In 
the  three  and  a  half  days  we  covered  about  73 
miles  on  foot  and  saw  some  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent scenery  in  Switzerland  and  in  the  wide 
world. 

After  the  initial  difficulty  in  scaling  the  heights 
above  Hospenthal.  we  pursued  an  even  course 
and  reached  the  summit  almost  before  we  knew 
it.  Shortly  before  this  we  had  made  a  short 
detour  and  explored  the  shores  of  a  beautiful 
Alpine  lake  6800  feet  above  the  sea.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  we  stood  at  the  Pass.  There  is  no 
extensive  view  to  be  seen  at  the  summit.  Several 
small  lakes  serve  to  enliven  the  rather  cheerless 
scenery.  A  kindly  German  tramper  snapped  our 
camera ;  and  here  you  behold  us  therefore  stand- 
ing at  the  top  of  the  world. 

36 


IN  SWITZERLAND 


We  had  crossed  the  watershed.  The  streams 
were  now  flowing  southerly  to  the  Adriatic.  In 
the  morning  at  Hospenthal  we  had  been  only  a 
short  distance  from  the  source  of  the  Rhine.  But 
yesterday  we  had  seen  the  first  streamlet  of  the 
Rhone.  Some  days  before  in  the  Black  Forest 
in  Germany,  not  a  great  many  miles  away,  we 
had  been  at  the  source  of  the  Danube.  The  great 
waterways  of  Europe  begin  in  the  same  Swiss 
mountains,  but  how  different  is  their  history  and 
the  history  of  the  nations  along  their  banks ! 

Beyond  the  Pass  the  road  descends  along  an 
abrupt  hillside.  Its  long  curves  tempt  the  travel- 
ler into  footpaths  but  these  are  full  of  rocks  and 
bad  places.  After  interminable  stretches  of  this 
sort  we  were  finally  rewarded  by  a  superb  view 
of  the  great  valley-way  stretching  southwards 
into  Italy.  It  seemed  to  be  spread  out  at  our  very 
feet.  Airolo  was  the  nearest  town,  but  a  half 
dozen  more  might  be  seen  along  the  valley. 

Coming  into  Airolo  at  a  little  after  two  o'clock, 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  new  world.  Unaided 
and  by  our  own  exertions,  we  had  passed  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours  from  a  region  whose  every 
human  aspect  was  characteristically  German,  to 
a  region  where  the  signs,  shops,  speech  and  smells 
proclaimed  unmistakably  the  Italian. 

37 


On  a  day  as  St.  Francis  was  journeying 
with  Friar  Masseo,  the  said  Friar  Masseo 
went  a  little  in  front  of  him ;  and  when 
they  reached  a  point  where  three  ways  met 
— one  leading  to  Florence,  another  to  Siena, 
and  a  third  to  Arej:zo — Friar  Masseo  said, 
"Father,  which  road  ought  we  to  follow?" 
St.  Francis  answered,  "That  which  God 
willeth."  Said  Friar  Masseo,  "And  how 
shall  we  know  the  will  of  God?"  St. 
Francis  answered,  "By  the  token  I  shall 
show  thee :  wherefore  I  command  thee  by 
the  merit  of  holy  obedience  that  at  this 
parting  of  the  ways,  and  on  the  spot  where 
thou  now  standest,  thou  shalt  turn  round 
and  round  as  children  do,  and  shalt  not 
cease  turning  until  I  bid  thee."  Then  Friar 
Masseo  began  to  turn  round  and  round, 
and  continued  so  long  that  by  reason  of  the 
giddiness  which  is  wont  to  be  begotten  by 
such  turning,  he  fell  many  times  to  the 
ground ;  but,  as  St.  Francis  did  not  bid  him 
stay,  he  rose  up  again,  for  faithfully  he 
desired  to  obey  him.  At  length,  when  he 
was  turning  lustily,  St.  Francis  cried,  "Stay; 
stir  not!"  And  he  stayed.  Then  St. 
Francis  asked  him,  "Towards  which  part  is 
thy  face  turned?"  Friar  Masseo  answers. 
"Towards  Siena."  Said  St.  Francis.  "That 
is  the  road  God  wills  we  should  go." 

Little  Flowers  of  St.  Francis 

38 


IN   ITALY 

Nihil  habentes,  omnia  possidentes 

"^  I  AHERE  was  a  man  in  the  city  of  Assisi, 
I       by    name    Francis,    whose    memory    is 

■*■  blessed,  for  that  God,  graciously  pre- 
venting him  with  the  blessings  of  good- 
ness, delivered  him  in  His  mercy  from  the  perils 
of  this  present  life,  and  abundantly  filled  him 
with  the  gifts  of  heavenly  grace." 

In  the  passing  of  the  centuries  few  men  of  any 
race  or  period  have  left  us  so  fragrant  a  memory 
as  The  Little  Poor  One,  Brother  Francis  of 
Assisi.  He  was  winsome,  joyous,  simple,  artless, 
gentle,  humble,  self-effacing,  superlatively  kind  to 
man  and  beast,  obedient  to  the  heavenly  vision — 
a  rich,  rare,  choice  soul  such  as  men  instinctively 
revere  and  honor.  Those  even  of  his  own  gen- 
eration called  him  by  common  consent  "il  santo" ; 
and  no  saint  was  more  worthy  of  this  title. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  June  10, 
1911,  I  reached  the  town  of  Assisi.  On  the  train 
I  had  been  reading  the  Fioretti,  or  The  Little 
Flowers  of  St.  Francis,  and  had  found  it  singu- 
larly naive  and  delightful. 

39 


AFOOT  A\D  lighthf-:arti:d 


"Then  St.  Francis  mounted  the  pulpit 
and  began  to  preach  so  wondrously  of 
the  contempt  of  the  world,  of  holy  pen- 
ance, of  voluntary  poverty,  and  of  the 

desire  for  the  heavenly  kingdom , 

that  all  they  that  were  present  at  the 
sermon,  men  and  women,  in  great  multi- 
tudes, began  to  weep  bitterly  with 
wondrous  devotion  and  contrition  of 
heart." 

"Then  St.  Francis  speaks  to  him  (the 
wolf  of  Gubbio)  thus,  'Friar  wolf,  thou 
workest  much  evil  in  these  parts,  and 
hast  wrought  grievous  ill,  destroying 
and  slaying  God's  creatures  without  His 
leave;  and  not  only  hast  thou  slain  and 
devoured  the  beasts  of  the  field,  but  thou 
hast  dared  to  destroy  and  slay  men  made 
in  the  image  of  God ;  wherefore  thou 
art  worthy  of  the  gallows  as  a  most 
wicked  thief  and  murderer:  all  folk  cry 
out  and  murmur  against  thee,  and  all 
this  city  is  at  enmit}-  with  thee.  But. 
friar  wolf,  fain  would  I  make  peace 
with  them  and  thee,  so  that  thou  injure 
them  no  more ;  and  they  shall  forgive 
thee  all  thy  past  oflPenses,  and  neither 
man  nor  dog  shall  pursue  thee  more.' 
Now  when  St.  Francis  had  spoken  these 
words,  the  wolf,  moving  his  body  and 
his  tail  and  his  ears,  made  signs  that  he 

40 


IN  ITALY 

accepted  what  had  been  said,  and  would 
abide  thereby." 

Assisi  is  among  the  Apennines  in  the  beautiful 
Umbrian  country.  It  is  set  up  on  a  hill  and  has  a 
pleasing  appearance  and  an  ancient  flavor.  While 
it  is  not  so  busy  a  place  as  in  the  days  of  Francis, 
in  some  of  its  aspects  it  has  changed  little  in 
seven  hundred  years.  Few  shrines  are  so  well 
worth  visiting. 

In  the  open  plain  below  the  hill  is  an  imposing 
church — St.  Mary  of  the  Angels — on  the  site  of 
the  original  chapel  where  St.  Francis  and  his 
followers  lived  and  worshipped.  Indeed  the 
newer  church  encloses  the  old.  As  you  enter  you 
see  the  diminutive  building,  the  Portiuncula, 
under  the  central  dome.  You  may  go  within  the 
sacred  chapel  and  see  the  original  altar.  As 
Sabatier  says,  "This  chapel,  still  standing  at  the 
present  day  after  escaping  revolutions  and  earth- 
quakes, is  a  true  Bethel,  one  of  those  rare  spots 
in  the  world  on  which  rests  the  mystic  ladder 
which  joins  heaven  to  earth;  there  were  dreamed 
some  of  the  noblest  dreams  which  have  soothed 
the  pains  of  humanity."  There  is  also  preserved 
under  the  dome  of  the  newer  church  the  original 
cell  of  St.  Francis.    How  impressive  these  objects 

41 


AFOOT  AND  LIGUTI  lEAKTKD 


are !     Few  can  stand  unmoved  in  their  presence. 

I  walked  leisurely  up  the  long  hill  that  leads  to 
Assisi.  The  chief  sights  of  the  town  as  one 
enters  are  the  old  Franciscan  Monastery  (now  a 
school)  and  the  two  churches,  one  built  over  the 
other.  In  the  churches  are  the  frescoes  of  Giotto 
and  Cimabue,  the  main  artistic  glories  of  Assisi. 
But,  to  the  lover  of  Friar  Francis,  the  crypt — 
a  barefooted  Franciscan  brother,  candle  in  hand, 
takes  you  down — proves  the  most  impressive  part 
of  the  visit  to  the  churches,  for  here  is  the  tomb 
of  the  saint  and  other  treasures,  including  a 
manuscript  of  St.  Francis's,  and  strange  to  say,  a 
wonderfully  ornamented  silver  clock  (still  tick- 
ing) embellished  by  Benvenuto  Cellini.  To  have 
Francis,  all  purity  and  goodness,  and  Cellini,  a 
man  fashioned  from  common  clay,  selfish,  cruel 
and  passionate,  thus  brought  into  close  juxtaposi- 
tion, strikes  one  as  a  curious  anomaly. 

Continuing  my  adventures,  I  walked  to  the 
topmost  part  of  Assisi,  by  the  side  of  the  old 
castle — now  the  citadel — and  sat  down  on  the 
green  slope  looking  at  the  hills  beyond.  Time  has 
little  effect  upon  such  a  scene.  Francis  had  gazed 
lovingly  upon  this  selfsame  prospect.  After  the 
lapse  of  seven  hundred  years  he  seemed  still  there 
among  his  Umbrian  hills. 

42 


IN  ITALY 

Coming  through  the  town  again  and  threading 
the  narrow  and  ancient  streets,  I  came  upon  the 
church  of  St.  Clare,  where  has  been  preserved 
the  Chapel  of  St.  Giorgio  and  the  body  of  Santa 
Clara,  a  disciple  of  Francis  and  scarcely  less 
saintly  than  he.  A  relic  is  also  placed  here  of  the 
old  convent  of  St.  Damian.  In  this  convent,  in 
the  plain  below  Assisi,  Santa  Clara  and  her  fellow 
sisters,  the  "poor  ladies  of  St.  Damian,"  lived 
and  labored. 

Outside  of  the  town  gate  I  found  another  green 
slope  by  the  side  of  a  little  stream  and  in  sight  of 
a  fair  vineyard, — a  typical  Italian  landscape.  Then 
I  returned,  and  chancing  upon  a  street  called  Via 
Frate  Elia  (named,  no  doubt,  after  Brother 
Elias,  one  of  the  companions  of  Francis),  I 
ascended  it  to  the  higher  levels  of  the  town  and 
there  fell  in  with  a  peddler  who  sold  me  a  book 
in  Italian,  which  I  bought  for  pure  good  will — as 
I  could  not  read  it;  and  with  a  tiny  girl  whom 
I  patted  on  the  head  and  to  whom  I  presented  a 
coin  in  my  best  manner.  I  was  in  truth  in  an 
idyllic  frame  of  mind,  induced  by  the  town  of 
Assisi  and  the  memories  that  clustered  about  it. 
That  evening  I  stood  for  a  while  at  my  window 
in  the  Hotel  Giotto  and  looked  down  upon  the 

43 


AFOOT  AND  LIGHT! IKAKTKD 


plain  and  tried  to  fancy  how  St.  Francis  must 
have  felt  as  the  same  panorama  was  unfolded 
before  his  eyes.  Early  in  the  morning  I  was  on 
my  way  to  Perugia  and  Florence. 

This  was  the  shortest  pilgrimage  in  my  experi- 
ence. Considered  merely  as  a  walking  trip  it  was 
nothing;  yet  in  the  retrospect  it  looms  large.  I 
would  fain  go  to  Assisi  again  and  take  note  of 
the  smallest  detail  and  investigate  all  the  sur- 
rounding region,  and  thus  strive  to  arrive  at  some 
dim  comprehension  of  the  beaut}'  of  the  life  that 
was  once  lived  there. 

I  have  just  been  re-reading  Sabatier's  Life  of 
St.  Francis.  It  is  one  of  the  small  group  of 
great  biographies, — partly  because  it  is  put  to- 
gether with  rare  skill,  partly  because  it  gives  an 
intimate  study  of  a  noble  human  spirit,  and  again 
because  the  writer  has  become  so  closely  asso- 
ciated with  his  subject  that  his  understanding  of 
the  life  and  motives  of  St.  Francis  is  well-nigh 
perfect.  The  book  is  full  of  thoughts  and  sug- 
gestions that  give  the  reader  pause. 

"The  revelation  of  Francis  was  in  his 
heart ;  the  sacred  fire  which  he  was  to 
communicate  to  the  souls  of  others  came 
from  within  his  own.  but  the  best  causes 

44 


>ii\i\i  rranQois  d'Assise. 


L\  ITALY 

need  a  standard.  Before  the  shabby 
altar  of  the  Portiuncula  he  had  per- 
ceived the  banner  of  poverty,  sacrifice, 
and  love ;  he  would  carry  it  to  the  assault 
of  every  fortress  of  sin." 

"At  the  sight  of  beauty  love  always 
awakes ;  at  the  appeal  of  holiness  the 
divine  witness  within  us  at  once  re- 
sponds ;  and  so  we  see,  streaming  from 
all  points  of  the  horizon  to  gather 
around  those  who  preach  in  the  name 
of  the  inward  voice,  long  processions  of 
souls  athirst  for  the  ideal." 

"Francis  was  one  of  those  who  strug- 
gle, and  to  use  one  of  the  noblest 
expressions  of  the  Bible,  of  those  who 
by  their  perseverance  conquer  their 
souls." 

"St.  Francis  renounced  everything 
only  that  he  might  the  better  possess 
everything.  The  lives  of  the  immense 
majority  of  our  contemporaries  are 
ruled  by  the  fatal  error  that  the  more 
one  possesses  the  more  one  enjoys.  Our 
exterior,  civil  liberties  continually  in- 
crease, but  at  the  same  time  our  inward 
freedom  is  taking  flight." 

"How  shall  one  be  melancholy  who 
has  in  his  heart  an  inexhaustible  treas- 
ure of  life  and  truth  which  only  in- 
creases as  one  draws  upon  it?  How  be 

45 


A  I- (JOT  AND  LIGHTilEARTKD 


sad   when   in   spite  of   falls  one  never 
ceases  to  make  progress?" 

There  are  many  charming  incidents  that  crowd 
the  pages  of  this  biography.  Such,  for  example, 
the  occasion  when  Francis,  as  he  was  going 
through  the  forest  singing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  was  met  by  some  ruffians  who  demanded. 
"Who  are  you?"  "I  am  the  herald  of  the  great 
King,"  he  replied. — Or,  again,  the  occasion  when, 
about  to  set  sail  for  Egypt  and  embarrassed  by 
the  number  of  his  companions,  he  told  them  that 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  signify  those  who 
should  be  left  behind ;  and  forthwith  determined 
what  was  the  will  of  God  by  calling  a  child  who 
was  playing  close  at  hand  and  asking  him  to 
point  out  the  eleven  friars  who  were  to  sail  on  the 
expedition. — Or  again,  on  the  well-known  occa- 
sion when  he  preached  a  sermon  to  the  birds : 
"Brother  birds,  you  ought  to  praise  and  love 
your  Creator  very  much.  He  has  given  you 
feathers  for  clothing,  wings  for  flying,  and  all 
that  is  needful  for  you.  He  has  made  you  the 
noblest  of  His  creatures ;  He  permits  you  to  live 
in  the  pure  air ;  you  have  neither  to  sow  nor  to 
reap,  and  yet  He  takes  care  of  you.  watches  over 
you  and  guides  you."    No  wonder  that  the  birds 

46 


IN  ITALY 

showed  no  fear  and  allowed  him  to  move  amongst 
them  freely  and  to  stroke  them  with  his  tunic. 

In  his  last  illness  Francis  composed  The  Can- 
ticle of  the  Sun.  It  was  within  a  year  of  the 
time  when,  at  the  age  of  forty-four  he,  as  Thomas 
of  Celano  beautifully  expressed  it,  "welcomed 
death  with  a  song."  Matthew  Arnold's  transla- 
tion of  this  artless  yet  noble  hymn  may  fittingly 
close  our  picture  of  Assisi  and  Assisi's  Saint. 

"O  most  high,  almighty,  good  Lord 
God,  to  thee  belong  praise,  glory,  honor, 
and  all  blessing! 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  God  with  all 
his  creatures,  and  specially  our  brother 
the  sun,  who  brings  us  the  day  and  who 
brings  us  the  light;  fair  is  he  and 
shines  with  a  very  great  splendor:  O 
Lord,  he  signifies  to  us  thee! 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister 
the  moon,  and  for  the  stars,  the  which 
he  has  set  clear  and  lovely  in  heaven. 

"Praised  by  my  Lord  for  our  brother 
the  wind,  and  for  air  and  cloud,  calms 
and  all  weather  by  the  which  thou  up- 
holdest  life  in  all  creatures. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister 
water,  who  is  very  serviceable  unto  us 
and  humble  and  precious  and  clean. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  brother 

47 


AFOOT  y\ND  LIGUTIIEARTED 


fire,  through  whom  thou  givest  us  light 
in  the  darkness ;  and  he  is  bright  and 
pleasant  and  very  mighty  and  strong. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  motlier 
the  earth,  the  which  does  sustain  us  and 
keep  us,  and  bringeth  forth  divers  fruits 
and  flowers  of  many  colors,  and  grass. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  all  those 
who  pardon  one  another  for  his  love's 
sake,  and  who  endure  weakness  and 
tribulation;  blessed  are  they  who  peac- 
ably  shall  endure,  for  thou.  O  most 
Highest,  shalt  give  them  a  crown 

"Praise  ye  and  bless  the  Lord,  and 
give  thanks  unto  him  and  serve  him  with 
great  humility." 


48 


D921  R/ 

Richardson,  William  Lee, 

18  74- 
Afoot  and  lighthearted; 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  310  317   1 


3   1210  00277  3321 


